When A Good Man Goes To War
by Cara Jay
Summary: AU: Sam and Dean are brothers in WWI, and are about to embark on the attack of the Somme. But things don't go as planned... Rated T for violence. Word count of story: 1,891.


**This is a one shot AU where Sam and Dean are in WWI. It's rather sad at the end, but please no hate for it! I had to do a short story for an assessment in English, and I thought it was good, so I put it up. Enjoy, and please leave constructive critisicsm!**

I wake up after two hours, with the constant sound of our shells still attacking the Jerry's on the other side of No-Mans-Land. This was how it had been for a week now.

"Good morning, Sammy." My brother, Dean, calls from further down the trench.

"_Sam_," I tell him. I swing my legs off over the side of the soiled mattress that had been pushed into a hole in the wall and make my way over to Dean, making sure to avoid the rats that roam the wooden planks that cover the muddy floor. "When do you think the shelling is going to stop?" I ask Dean, wiggling my toes in my boots to wake them up and straightening my jacket.

"I don't know," my older brother replies "but I hope it's soon, it's really starting to do my head in" He rubs his forehead, we couldn't get pain meds for something as small as a headache out here, we just had to endure it and hope it went soon.

"I hope it's soon, too." I sigh, feeling the pounding in my head too.

As if he heard what we were saying, Commander Cooper comes out from his special quarters, and calls us all over to him.

"Alright, men. I have orders from Field Marshall Haig. At ten hundred hours, you are to go over the top and launch an attack on the Germans that were unlucky enough to survive our bombardment over the past week." Commander Cooper barked at us, another shell exploding, punctuating his words. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" we all shout back.

"Good! You will all give me your precious possessions, and I will look after them and you will have them returned to you when you arrive back here. Anything not reclaimed will be shared out between survivors." Commander Cooper started making his way between our comrades, carrying a bucket which everyone was dropping things into; letters, pictures, all that sort of thing. I looked at Dean next to me, and he gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but I understood. I was not to put my possessions into the bucket: I was to keep the picture of Jessica close to my heart.

When Commander Cooper came to Dean and I and we didn't put anything in the bucket, he raised his eyebrow and asked us: "Don't you have anything to put in, boys?"

"No, Sir." Dean lied smoothly, as always "We come from a poor family, you see, and we couldn't afford luxuries, even before the war."

"Okay, then. You've got half an hour to get ready before you're needed here to go over." He instructed, looking down at his watch.

"Thank you, Sir." Dean and I said as we excused ourselves and went over to Dean's makeshift bed.

"You're going to be okay, Sammy." Dean tells me as he starts putting his kit on: Hat behind his head, gun slung over his shoulder.

"_Sam_." I correct him for about the millionth time. "And _we're_ going to be okay." I emphasize his mistake and look at him, and he smiles at me, but it doesn't touch his bright green eyes, which are tinged with sadness, as if he knows something bad is going to happen. "Have you got some paper and a pencil I could borrow?" I ask, because I've used all mine up, and I want to write one last letter to Jessica.

"Yeah," Dean replies "It's in my bag somewhere. You writing a letter to Jess?"

"Thanks, and yeah." I start rummaging through his bag, and wrap my hand around the paper and pencil when I find it. I get up and settle on the mattress, and begin to write, leaning on my leg, wishing I could see Jessica one last time.

"Dear Jessica" I can never write without reading it aloud too. It's annoying when I'm writing something personal. "We've been given another mission. We have to go into No-Mans-Land and attack the Germans that didn't die in our shell bombardment. It should be easy, but I have a bad feeling about it. I just want you to know, if I don't make it, I want you to find someone else. I want you to live a happy, full life. And remember. Angels are watching over you." A tear runs down my cheek and lands on the paper, dampening it, as I sign my name for possibly the last time "I love you. Sam" I take a deep breath and look up, choking back tears, at Dean who is still looking at me with that sadness in his eyes.

Just then, Commander Cooper blew his whistle, signalling to us that it was time to get ready. I quickly scribbled Jessica's address on the envelope, and went over to him.

"Can you make sure this gets delivered for me, Sir?" I ask, holding up the envelope for him.

"Sure thing, son." He replies, taking my final letter out of my hand and stuffing it in his pocket.

"Thank you" I said, turning and walking the couple of steps to the other side of the trench, and positioned myself next to Dean on the ladder leading into No-Mans-Land.

"Right, men." Commander Cooper barked at us again "You are to make your way across No-Mans-Land, and shoot all Germans that you see, and you are _not_ to turn back. If you see one of your comrades turn and run back, shoot them. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" We shout, knowing none of us are going to turn around.

"Right, then. On my whistle…" A few moments later, Commander Cooper blew his whistle again and there was a scramble of men trying to climb up the side of the trench. As soon as Dean and I got over, we were met with enemy gunfire. We immediately fell onto our stomachs, making small progress with our guns in front of us. We kept low, watching our comrade's fall dead around us, and soon deciding to stay where we were.

A few hours later, the gunfire ceased, and Dean and I cautiously stood up. The effect was instantaneous. Gunfire started again, and I got a bullet to the shoulder, causing white hot pain, and my legs crumpled beneath me. I blacked out but I could still hear things, smell things, feel things, and think incoherent thoughts. _Pain… Mud… Dean… Gunfire… Pain… Pain… Dean…_

I don't know how long after it was, but when I came around again, the gunfire had stopped. It was raining, and I could still feel the pain in my shoulder, but I was cold, and that was numbing it enough that I could move it a little bit. When I came around completely, I could only make one thought: _Dean. Where is he? _I couldn't hear anyone walking around, so I risked sitting up. Nothing happened, apart from a throbbing in my shoulder. That's when I saw him. Dean. He was lying face down in the mud, a few metres away from me. That wasn't the worst of it, though. He was surrounded by a dark puddle of liquid. Blood.

I moved over to him as quickly as my arm would allow and rolled him over as gently as I could, trying not to use my bad arm too much. When I'd managed to roll Dean over, my heart stopped. He had multiple shot wounds, on his arms, his legs… and one in his stomach. He'd lost a lot of blood, most of which I was now sitting in, but he couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. I shake him slightly, trying to wake him, but there was no response.

"One more miracle, Dean. For me." I whisper, my head close to his. "Don't be… dead." A tear slipped down my cheek and landed on Dean's, and he groaned.

"Sammy…?" He moaned, his face contorting in pain with the effort. I try and wipe the mud off of Dean's face, to make him less beaten up, but the grime mixes with blood, making his face look a hundred times worse.

"It's okay, I'm here, you're going to be okay," I coo, using the technique I'd learnt from Dean when he looked after me as a child. I smile down at him, but he's not looking. He looks like he is trying to form words, his brow crumpled in concentration.

"Sammy… In my top pocket… There's a necklace… I want… I want you to have it." He mumbles, struggling to get the words out properly. I go into the pocket he spoke of, and sure enough, there is a silver locket in there, which opens up to show a picture of a blonde woman and a dark haired man, who I recognised as my dad. In front of him was a small boy, about four years old, with light hair and green eyes. Dean, I recognise, from my younger days. In the woman's arms was a baby, about six months old, who I realised must be me, and that the woman must be my mother before she died.

"Thank you, Dean. I- I love it." I look up, to see Dean's head loll back, and I lurch forward in time to catch it before it hits the ground. "Dean?! Dean, please, no!" His eyes roll around in his head a little bit before focusing on me, the bright green contrasting with the reds and browns on his face.

"Goodbye, Sammy…" Dean breathes, before he lets out a big sigh, and the light dims out of his eyes forever.

"NO!" I shout, refusing to accept that my big brother is gone. "No, Dean. You can't die on me! I need you! No, no, no, no, no! Dean…" I sob, letting the tears fall freely, tightly hugging Dean around his torso, the locket firmly grasped in my hand.

I look down and watch my tears, falling freely again, land on my old and wrinkled hands, placed gently on my legs. I watch them sink into my trousers, but I don't acknowledge it. I look up and read Dean's gravestone one last time, planning to ingrain every last detail of it into my mind forever. The smooth white granite, the curve of the top, the inscription of Dean's last details.

"Dean Milligan" I read, my voice thick with tears and gravelly with age. "24th January 1890 – 1st July 1916." I bent down and placed the locket Dean gave me next to the headstone. "I thought you might like this back," I whisper. "I had a copy made, so we could both have one." I dip my hand into my shirt and bring out a locket, identical to the one I had just placed down, as if he could see it, and then let it go, leaving it to hang in the middle of my chest. "Goodbye, Dean." I whisper. "It won't be long before I see you again. Come on, Jess. Let's go." I call to my wife, withered with age, but still as beautiful as the day I met her. She wheeled my chair around, and I was sure I saw a man who looked like Dean when he was younger, exactly the same eyes, stood next to his headstone as she pushed me away. But that was impossible. Ghosts don't exist. Do they?


End file.
